


Sober

by omgericzimmermann (HMSLusitania)



Series: The Good Ship Holsom [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Oops, pot, this got dirtier and more alcoholic and angstier than i meant it to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMSLusitania/pseuds/omgericzimmermann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're friends. </p><p>They're friends who make out when they're drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sober

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhysiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/gifts).



> Rhysiana requested that perhaps I write more Holsom, so I did. 
> 
> This got a little longer, a little more alcoholic, and a little angstier than I intended. But oh well.

The first time it happens is at a kegster their frog year. Ransom usually forgets that Holster is two years older than him, at least he’s been slowly forgetting that in the few months they’ve known each other, but it’s hard to do when Holster shows up at the kegster with his own bottle of tequila that he bought completely legally, which for some godforsaken reason Ransom can’t do in this godforsaken country he decided to move to for university. But at least Holster shares with him, and before the night is really getting to that point, they’re drunkenly singing karaoke to the Backstreet Boys. The older guys on the team are laughing with or at them; Ransom can’t tell and doesn’t care.

They’ve had most of the bottle of tequila by this point, and when Holster finishes the last wavery note on “As Long As You Love Me” he dips Ransom low and kisses him. It’s probably the tequila talking, but Ransom wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the night kissing Holster, their lips slick with spit and their tongues brushing against each other leaving a taste of tequila, each time sending a jolt of electricity under Ransom’s skin.

They don’t.

* * *

 

The next time is only a few months later when they’re working on acquiring dibs from Dave Cohen and Alex Berger. Ransom’s been doing Cohen’s homework for the better part of a month and Holster’s been Berger’s personal maid, complete with frilly apron. Ransom can’t help but laugh at Holster’s apron every time he sees it, because it’s fucking ridiculous and also because Holster fucking rocks it.

“It could be worse,” he points out. “Berger could be making you go around completely naked except for the apron.”

By worse he means better because no sane person would pass up the opportunity to gawp at Holster’s ass. Which – well, not that Ransom’s looking, not that he _ever_ looks in the locker room because that is Against the Rules, but like…but like, he thinks he might need to talk to Shitty.

He finds him in his room at the Haus, completely naked save the pillow over his junk that he’s got his laptop on.

“Ransom,” Shitty acknowledges. “You look like you’re having a Big Gay Crisis.”

“I’m not gay,” Ransom immediately protests.

Shitty sighs deeply, the world weary sigh of the vastly put upon, and types something into his laptop. He spins it around and offers it to Ransom.

“What’s the Kinsey Test?” Ransom asks.

“Just take it,” Shitty says.

Ransom does as he’s told and scores a two.

“Congratulations, man, you’re not quite straight,” Shitty says. “Let’s drink.”

Once they’ve got a few strong IPAs in them, Shitty explains about Kinsey and the 0-6 scale and that getting a 2 means Ransom is somewhat on the straighter side of bisexual, unless he chooses to identify some other way. By the time Shitty starts rambling about genderfluidity and the various associated gender identities and sexualities, Ransom has had too much to drink to really follow what he’s talking about. Fortunately, this is when Holster finds them and takes one look at the two of them, sprawled on Shitty’s floor drunk. Holster scans the number of empty bottles on the floor, grabs the bottle of vodka off Shitty’s desk, holds up a finger for their patience, takes three glugs from the bottle, and then falls intentionally to the floor between them.

“Give it a sec, I’ll be caught up too,” he says. “Why are we drinking?”

“I was educating Rans on the various nuances of human sexuality,” Shitty says.

“Sick brah,” Holster says, grabbing one of their beers.

They’re all fucked-up-drunk by the time it gets to be one in the morning and Shitty kicks them out so he can drunk dial their manager. Ransom and Holster start to walk back to the dorms, but Ransom falls over onto Holster’s shoulder before they make it that far. They end up in the grass next to the banks of the river.

It takes Ransom a moment to realise Holster is rambling about how much he likes kissing people. He’s mumbling about how nice it is, even platonic kissing, maybe especially platonic kissing, and Ransom can’t really stop himself from rolling over and kissing him on the lips. Holster seems not at all surprised, and reciprocates immediately, brushing his tongue over Ransom’s lower lip, inhaling sharply when Ransom drags his lip between his teeth. They lay in the grass making out until dawn.

* * *

 

It never happens when they’re not drunk.

Neither of them go home for the summer, opting instead to move directly from the dorms to the Haus, their new shared attic. Shitty refuses point blank to go back to Cambridge for the summer since he’s apparently supposed to spend it with his dad’s family, and the three of them spend the summer ignoring Johnson’s weird, vague texts about subtext and proper behaviour.

It happens three more times in June and July. The third time, they wake up in bed together, snuggled up like sardines in Holster’s bunk. Ransom tries not to think too hard about how much he likes it. Because when he’s not drunk, Holster’s totally straight.

But when he’s drunk, he likes making out with Ransom, and when he’s high…

Ransom very accidentally discovers that Holster has an oral fixation when they get stoned with Shitty in August. They’re watching reruns of _30 Rock_ at Holster’s request and they’ve been eating ice cream straight from their individual pints (because Jack isn’t there to yell at them for breaking their diet and Ransom will absolutely kill their captain if he tries to take away his Caramel Hat Trick ice cream that he had to go all the way to Canada to get since they don’t sell it in the US). Ransom and Shitty have had the common decency to leave their spoons in their empty pints, but Holster’s still got his in his mouth and seems to be sucking on it.

“Bro, what are you doing?” Ransom asks, trying to pull the spoon away from him. Holster actually fucking _whines_.

“I like having things in my mouth,” Holster says around the spoon and Ransom’s pretty sure he’s just burst into – no, not flames, he’s surpassed flames, he’s gone straight to charcoal briquette in a barbeque.

“Look, brah, if you want me to leave so you can suck Rans’s dick all you have to do is ask,” Shitty says before disappearing into the upstairs of the Haus.

“Can I?” Holster asks once Shitty’s gone.

“Can you what?” Ransom demands, trying not to think about the absurd speed his heart is going.

“Blow you,” Holster says, all casual like this is an everyday conversation. Like this is always the kind of conversation you have with your best friend, line mate, roommate while you’re stoned on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of August.

“I dunno, man, maybe we should just make out,” Ransom suggests and Holster shrugs and pulls Ransom closer, kissing him deeply. The only problem with it is that Holster keeps sucking Ransom’s tongue into his mouth and it’s kind of uncomfortable.

Besides, it’s not like Ransom is _opposed_ to the idea of swapping blow jobs with Holster. But Holster’s so goddamn casual about it. And Ransom’s not sure he can be casual like that with Holster.

“Oh my god you are a terrible kisser when you’re high,” Ransom says, breaking away from Holster and trying to figure out some way to massage his tongue since it’s sore now.

“Sorry,” Holster says, kissing Ransom’s jaw and his neck and apparently it’s not just an oral fixation Holster’s got when he’s high, it’s general horniness. He sucks a hickey onto Ransom’s chest just below his collarbone and Ransom is way too turned on by that. And by the hickey that follows on his abs, and by the totally ruined look in Holster’s blue eyes when he looks up from leaving a hickey on the inside of his hip.

“Please,” Holster says with such earnestness it’s all Ransom can do not to kiss him again. But he’s already established that this is not a good plan when they’re high.

So he grumbles like he’s very put upon and not already way harder than he should be. “Ugh,” he says. “Fine.”

* * *

 

It just gets worse as sophomore year goes on. But they never talk about it. Ever.

Neither of them date anyone seriously, which is fine because there’s almost no way anyone either of them dated would be chill with the fact they keep making out when they’re drunk or swapping blowjobs when they’re high, and it’s starting to drive Ransom crazy. Because Holster is absolutely his best friend, and he wants to spend all his time with him, and he wants to kiss him when they’re sober, and he wants to have sex with him when they’re sober and –

And fuck. He loves Holster. He’s _in love_ with Holster.

By the time sophomore year ends and junior year starts, they haven’t done anything more sexual than kiss without the aid of pot. And they don’t have The Conversation. That would be crossing the line. But then there’s this volleyball girl at a kegster, and she keeps making eyes at both of them. Ransom makes out with her in the back hallway, and then when she goes off to get another drink Ransom finds her making out with Holster and something that feels an awful lot like jealousy flares up in his chest.

“Uh,” he says. The problem is he’s pretty sure he’s jealous of the girl, March, since half the time he’s the one Holster makes out with at parties.

“Oh! Justin!” March says, smiling at him while a blush covers her face. “You guys are roommates right?”

“Yeah,” Holster and Ransom say in unison. Holster looks confused about Ransom’s dark expression but doesn’t comment.

“Well, it’s just, word on the street is that you guys are…down for anything?” March says. Her blush is gone and now she looks hopeful.

“What kind of down for anything?” Holster asks, glancing at Ransom.

“Like if I were to go back to the attic with you guys, I could have you both,” March says.

It’s crossing the line. Neither of them have been smoking and honestly neither of them have had that much to drink. Ransom swallows because yeah, he’s down, but Holster is still sober enough to be straight. Probably. Ransom looks over at him and discovers Holster is staring at him like he’s waiting for Ransom’s reaction before having his own. Whatever Holster sees in his face clearly lets him make that decision.

“You absolutely can,” Holster says, and Ransom feels a surge of relief and anticipation surge through him.

“We should warn you though,” Ransom says as March takes them both by the hand and pulls them up the stairs. “We’ve got bunk beds.”

“We’ll have to be very cosy,” Holster says.

“Oh good,” March says.

* * *

 

Even after they’ve had sex with March a few times, even though they’ve had sex _without_ March a few times, they still don’t have The Conversation. The line has been crossed, has been crossed very firmly, and they don’t bring it up. But things have changed. Things have changed because Holster’s new favourite way to get Ransom to relax when he’s stressing about school is to have a couple beers and then pepper him with hickeys, unless Ransom has gone full coral reef mode, at which point it’s a little more intimate.

The fact they don’t talk about it is starting to kill Ransom and he can’t handle it when they get to senior year. They’ve got to deal with the co-captaincy and he has to study for the MCATs and apply to med schools and Holster’s having awkward encounters with scouts from most of the expansion teams and Ransom can’t deal with the fact he’s in love with his best friend who keeps trying to make out with him – as long as they’ve been drinking.

It’s in October that Ransom returns to the attic to find Holster sprawled out on his bunk with a few empty bottles nearby.

“Rans, come cuddle me,” Holster requests, stretching his arm out towards him.

“Nah, brah, I’ve got to study,” Ransom says, sitting down at his desk instead. He wants to curl up with Holster on the bed, kiss him, maybe have lazy afternoon sex, but he wants to be sober while he does it. And if Holster were sober the option would be off the table so.

“Rans,” Holster says. He’s confused, obviously. This is the first time Ransom has turned him down.

Ransom doesn’t say anything, he just keeps on studying.

“Did I do something?” Holster asks. “Rans. Talk to me.”

“I’ve just got to study brah,” Ransom says. It’s either that or shout at him that he’s tired of having drunk sex with his best friend, who he also just so happens to be in love with. He’s not opposed to the sex, or the drinking, but he’d like to have a sober conversation with Holster about it because he can’t do this anymore.

It’s in January that Ransom tells him that.

Maybe he times it poorly because they’re naked in bed, waiting for the sweat to dry on their skin so that when Holster gets out from under the blankets to grab a towel and throw away the condom he’s still wearing they won’t both freeze to death. But Ransom thinks he’s about to cry and he can’t in good conscience blame the Jell-O shots alone for that.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says.

“Okay,” Holster says in a casual tone that drags him right back to that first day in August three years ago when all casual, Holster had asked to blow him. “It’s cool, bro. It’s just a good way to relieve tension and shit, right?”

And that’s exactly why Ransom has to stop this because it’s so much more to him.

* * *

 

They still don’t talk about it even though it’s over. Ransom doesn’t let it drive him crazy because now he’s got to choose between the med schools he’s been accepted to, and Holster’s panicking about picking the right team, and they really don’t have time.

“Hey, you got into the University of Washington right?” Holster asks one day in mid-May. Graduation is right around the corner and neither of them have made their decisions.

“Yeah,” Ransom replies. Things have been both easier and more strained at the same time since they stopped. And goddamn if Ransom doesn’t just want to lunge across their desks and pull off his glasses and kiss him stupid, but he doesn’t. Because they’ve stopped and they’re sober.

“Okay cool,” Holster says, going back to his spreadsheet.

“Why?” Ransom asks.

“And you got into the med school at Brown, right?” Holster asks.

“Yeah, but they’re only offering me complete bullshit for financial aid,” Ransom says.

Holster opens his mouth to ask again, but Ransom pre-empts him.

“And I got into UBC and UCLA and SUNY Downstate,” Ransom says. “Why?”

He sort of knows why but he’d been assuming they wouldn’t. They aren’t going to stick together after graduation like glue the way they have their entire university career. But the Schooners are in Seattle along with UW and they want Holster, and the Falcs are in Providence of course, and the Canucks are in Vancouver, and the Kings are in LA, and the Rangers are in New York. He didn’t intentionally apply to schools in cities that have hockey teams, except that maybe he did.

“UW’s offering the best financial aid right?” Holster asks.

“Yeah,” Ransom says. He’s pretty sure the rain won’t kill him. After all, he is from Canada, even if he’s not from the lower mainland. It can’t be that much worse than Toronto.

“Cool,” Holster says. “The Schooners are offering me a pretty sweet signing bonus.”

“You’re not going to sign with them just because I’m going to UW are you?” Ransom asks.

As he says it, he realises he really has made his decision. He’s going to UW Medical School. He knows what he’s doing with his future. The only thing missing is The Conversation. Which they’re going to have to have if they’re moving to Seattle together.

Not that anything Holster’s said suggests for sure that they’re going _together_ , but if Ransom is being realistic, they’re obviously going together.

“Capitol Hill is supposed to be cool,” Holster says. “Or like, Queen Anne has pretty houses. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Holster,” Ransom says, frowning at him over the top of his laptop. He’s trying not to freak out about the fact he’s sending in his acceptance of place of study to UW. His parents are going to be so excited.

“Yeah,” Holster says without looking up. From the reflection in his glasses, Ransom can see real estate listings. He wonders if Holster knew somehow that Ransom was going to pick UW and if he’s already signed with the Schooners.

“Adam did you sign with the Schooners because you thought I was going to UW?” Ransom asks.

Holster mumbles something while his ears turn pink.

“What?” Ransom asks.

“I said I don’t know how to function without you,” Holster says, finally looking up from his computer screen. Ransom blinks. “And – and everything was going great and then you said we should stop touching each other which is fine, like, I can respect that, but I don’t know how to live without you anymore.”

Ransom feels something a little like hope. He tamps it down quickly.

“It’s not like we ever did anything sober anyway,” Ransom says. He doesn’t really mean it as a challenge, but that’s how it comes out.

“Of course not because you’re only bi-curious when you’ve been drinking and there’s something very fucked up about only one of the people involved being drunk,” Holster says.

Ransom feels his jaw go slack. “Hang the fuck on,” he says. “ _I’m_ only bi-curious when _I’ve_ been drinking? I am bisexual all the damn time!”

“Wait, what?” Holster asks. His eyes are wide behind his glasses. In the sunlight streaming through the attic window, the pale blue has gone nearly translucent.

“ _You’re_ the one who’s only bi when you’ve been drinking!” Ransom insists.

“I am a perfect 3 on the Kinsey Scale, Justin!” Holster retorts. “You’re the one who said we should stop sleeping together!”

“Only because I couldn’t take having drunk sex with my best friend who I’ve been in love with for the past three years anymore!” Ransom shouts. “Who happened to be straight!”

“I’m not straight!” Holster shouts back. “I have, on multiple occasions, _begged you_ to let me suck your dick!”

“Yeah well I _thought_ you were straight!” Ransom says, even though now that Holster’s pointed it out, he feels a little stupid for ever believing it.

“And I thought _you_ were straight!” Holster says.

“Dude, I was almost always the bottom,” Ransom points out. There’s a temporary silence in the attic. “We’re both really stupid aren’t we?”

Holster nods.

There’s more silence.

“Three years?” Holster asks quietly.

“Yeah well,” Ransom says, his cheeks heating up.

Holster’s face is also a little red and he looks down at his computer screen.

“There’s a pretty cool place in somewhere called West Seattle near a thing called Alki Beach,” Holster says.

“You’ve never heard Whiskey rant about the Alaskan Way Viaduct have you,” Ransom replies.

“Oh, right, yeah I have,” Holster says. “Never mind.”

Ransom snorts and looks back down at his own laptop. There’s nothing interesting there but it masks the butterflies in his stomach that are threatening to overwhelm him. He stretches his legs out under the desk, accidentally kicking one of Holster’s feet in the process.

“Are you playing footsie with me?” Holster asks, glancing at Ransom over the top of his laptop.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Ransom says. He clears his throat. “But I kind of might be now.”

Holster calmly closes his computer and stands up, circling around the desks.

“Can I kiss you?” Holster asks. He sounds a little vulnerable and Ransom can’t help himself.

“Well, you _can_ , but what you’re really asking is if you _may_ ,” Ransom says.

Holster’s eye-roll is audible while he pulls Ransom off his desk chair and kisses him. And it’s…different. Holster’s lips taste a little like mint toothpaste and his tongue tastes like coffee and not remotely like any kind of alcohol. Ransom lets his hands explore Holster’s chest the way he pretty much always wants to, and groans when Holster grabs his ass and pulls him closer. When Ransom pulls his tank off over his head, he entertains himself leaving hickeys on Holster’s chest. His internal monologue is mostly just excited screaming and giddy giggling. Holster, atypically, goes for the button on Ransom’s shorts before he goes for his shirt.

“Anything to get you out of those fucking salmon shorts,” Holster mumbles against Ransom’s neck. Ransom can’t stop himself from bursting out laughing.

It’s several hours later, their clothes and bedding strewn around the attic, that Holster realises he’s lost his phone.

“Can you call it?” Holster asks.

He’s got his head resting on the small of Ransom’s back since Ransom is lying on his stomach on the floor. God help them if someone were to walk into the attic just then, Ransom thinks, closing Instagram and dialling Holster’s number.

“You’ve got my number memorised?” Holster asks, pressing a kiss to Ransom’s back.

“Like you don’t have mine memorised,” Ransom says. He feels Holster smile against his skin. “And besides, I don’t think they let you look at your phone contacts when you’re making your one phone call in a police station.”

“That’s really sweet bro, but there is no possible scenario in which one of us would ever get arrested without the other,” Holster points out.

“That’s very true,” Ransom says, realising that this is indeed a flaw in his plan. “I guess I’ll get around to memorising Shitty’s number.”

“Jack’s the one with the resources to actually bail us out,” Holster points out. “I’ll memorise Jack’s, you get Shitty’s.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Ransom says, calling Holster’s number. After a few seconds, a tinny rendition of “As Long As You Love Me” by the Backstreet Boys starts playing. Holster fishes his phone out from under Ransom’s pillow – which is leaning precariously against the laundry hamper for some reason – and silences it.

“Really?” Ransom asks, trying very hard not to laugh. Especially since it makes Holster blush from his face down his chest and it takes most of Ransom’s self-restraint not to lean over and follow that blush with his lips.

“It was the song we were singing for karaoke the first time we kissed,” Holster says.

“Yeah I remember,” Ransom says, dropping his phone and pulling Holster down for a kiss. It’s pretty much the only thing he ever wants to do ever again. “It’s still pretty sappy, even for you bro.”

“Yeah well, I’ve been in love with you for three and a half years,” Holster says.

Ransom kisses him again and follows the blush down his chest.

He’s happy to say they fall asleep completely sober.

**Author's Note:**

> Come cry with me on [tumblr.](http://omgericzimmermann.tumblr.com)


End file.
